


A Haze of Memories

by juniorlee



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Angst, F/M, Memory Palace, Moments of fluff (framed by heartbreak), Post-Series, Tragic Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-07
Updated: 2015-12-07
Packaged: 2018-05-05 09:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5370935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juniorlee/pseuds/juniorlee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lisbon lies lifeless in his arms while Jane desperately retreats into a maze of memories where she's alive and he's brilliantly happy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Haze of Memories

**Author's Note:**

> After rewatching the Mentalist, I was inspired by the idea of Jane's memory palace. I riffed off that and created something to fit my own devices.  
> First time publishing a fic! No betas, so feel free to let me know if I screwed anything up. Any and all feedback is appreciated.

 Her body is limp in his arms. Dark hair thrown in wet clumps across her too pale face. The smell of blood, coppery and cloying, is suffocating. He tries desperately to breathe, to get air in around the screams, but it's impossible. Foreign hands try to lift him away, to separate him from her, and the screams get louder. He realizes they aren't screams, just her name repeated over and over again, his voice breaking with strain and emotion, the sound unbearably loud to his own ears. Under the weight of the moment, he retreats. Flees within himself, into the endless series of doors and memories. He's amassed nearly twenty years worth of Lisbon, secure and present in those rooms, and that's where he goes, closing his eyes so the image of her laughing against his chest seems more real and tangible than the body in his arms. He opens door after door and surrounds himself with their life together, creating a cocoon of memories and moments. Teresa runs her fingers through his hair and he sighs in relief. Her head rests on his shoulder and, as he feels her exhale, he can breathe again.

He turns to watch her as she enters the cabin, it's the morning after their wedding and her hair is still peppered with pins, the last remnants of an effort to sweep her soft waves to one side. He'd offered to help her take them out the night before, but she'd kissed him instead. She'd pulled back when they were both breathless and asked with a cheeky grin if he could help her get out of her wedding dress. She perches on the window sill and watches him as he watches her. He knows instinctively that he will never have enough of her, so he catalogs each detail, drinking her in. The sun streams in behind her and her Bears jersey skims the top of her thighs just so. “What're you doing, Patrick?” she asks with a smile and a vague wave around the empty cabin.

He stumbles into another memory, a scene so bright with preserved detail it almost hurts to look at. He lays beside her on the bed in her old house in Austin. Teresa sleeps on her stomach, the light blue sheets pooled around her hips. His eyes are heavy, his body aches in pleasant reminder of the previous night's exertions, but he refuses to stop looking at her. Her dark hair is loose, fanned messily across a pillow; her face turned towards him, so close her lips are touching his shoulder. Sleep relaxes her face and he smiles as her sleeping form draws closer to him, her hand resting upon his chest. She chose him. She wants him. This amazing, stubborn, beautiful, brave woman chose him. He has spent so long cloaking self-hatred with cocky pridefulness that the emotion that choice inspires cannot immediately be labeled. He is satisfied with himself, he realizes. He feels the weight of her expectations in the back of his mind, but he trusts her too implicitly to doubt her choice. Teresa chose him, and that thought fills him with wonder and more than a little bit of pride. He makes a silent promise in that moment, to her and himself, to never give her reason to regret that decision. He's not perfect, but Teresa, who has seen all his faults and ugliness, loves him. He will make her happy and honor her trust because that is the very least that Teresa Lisbon deserves.  He caresses her face and she sighs, nestling closer to him. Their faces are just a breath apart now. He begins to count her heavy eyelashes, he revels at each minute freckle on her face and can't resit pressing a light kiss to her forehead. He wraps himself around her, too tired to act on the greedy impulses the feel of her body inspires.  _There will be time,_  his mind whispers,  _she chose you and now you have time_.

Another door opens and the cabin reappears, the space re-imagined with refinished floors and furniture in place. He walks past the kitchen to the nursery and finds her standing in triumph over a newly assembled crib. “Are you sure that's sturdy enough for our baby?” She scowls at him until the humor in his eyes overwhelms her. “I'd like to see you do better” She retorts, trying in vain to hide a smile. He closes the distance between them and picks up the instruction booklet, flipping through it lazily. “No... I couldn't have done it better, just perhaps quicker and with more-” he gestures lightly with his hands, “-finesse.” She lets out a theatrical gasp and a light green baby pillow suddenly flies into his face. He considers for a moment trying to suppress the self-satisfied grin he knows is taking over his face, but he doesn't bother. Everything is too perfect not to be grinning ear to ear, the tempestuous woman in front of him with her happy scowl and rounded belly makes everything perfect. Teresa eyes him warily, a smirk playing over her delicate features. He steps forward and she lets a nervous giggle escape. “Patrick..” She warns, trying to channel her office demeanor but having far too much fun to be successful. She laughs and takes off through the house, her dark hair flying as he follows. He can feel the laughter deep within him and a spectacular lightness in his chest that even five years ago would've been unimaginable. She leads him into their bedroom, all sky blue walls and dark wood. She lets him back her up against the bed and grabs the edges of his vest to bring him closer. “Patrick,” she breathes, “say it again”. And just like the first time she asked, his only answer is a kiss.

He feels wetness on his hands as he reaches for the next door, he wills himself not to look but the warm, sticky fluid won't cede his attention. He looks down at the dark red staining his hands and for a moment he's back on a sidewalk in Austin, cradling his wife and hoping against reason that she'll open her eyes and be okay. He desperately rejects the deep-set knowledge that she'll never open her eyes again. He tries to ignore the looming truth that neither of them will ever be okay, that the blood seeping into his tailored suit signals an end to everything. Her name feels heavy on his lips, his usual smooth, confident cadence stripped bare by emotion. He hears her voice echo through his mind, “Say it again,” and so he presses his lips to her cold forehead and whispers “I love you, Teresa” before the next door finally clicks open.  


End file.
